Thursday, December 24, 2020

O Christmas Tree!

 


Here we are in our new place with our resourceful Yucca tree--to whom I gave extra water for all its labors. I was tempted to spike the water but realized in time I'd like that better than the tree. We're having a very merry one, both Vegan and non, the non part duck a l'orange. Also dumplings. Also red cabbage. Also, possibly, Ben-Hur. Now's the time to sit around lazily and listen to Elvis Presley crooning Christmas. Have a good one!

Dinner: Duck, swimming in orange sauce, dumplings, red cabbage with apples, cookies, red wine. Yum. 

Dessert: a movie? Gossip? We're still deciding.  Red wine. Glug.  

P.S. The kids said Die Hard was "a Christmas movie."  ("It's SET at Christmas, Mommy.") Alan Rickman was so young!

Friday, December 11, 2020

Our Continuing Covid Crisis

 

In the olden days, teenagers gossiped about who was dating whom. Or who was wearing what. Or who’d done this to that. Times have changed. Now they invent stories about who has COVID or who should be quarantining. A teacher at my daughter’s school came up to her in the hall and asked her why she wasn’t home quarantining—classmate X had said my daughter and another friend were in quarantine because a third friend had COVID.  No, said my daughter, she didn’t have COVID. She’d already done a rapid test that was negative. 

 

When I took her to the internist for the rapid COVID test, I was ushered out to the stairwell, where, ensconced in my FFP mask and plastic face shield, I stood reading, shrinking toward the back wall whenever anyone exited the premises or arrived in the elevator. My corona app continues to inform me that I had “one encounter” with “low risk” and that could have been on the tram or in the supermarket. My daughter texted me: “I have to wait fifteen minutes for results.” The oversize Q-Tip up the nose had been anything but pleasant. The fifteen minutes turned into thirty. I WhatsApped, “??????” but she was still waiting. Another ten minutes rolled by. “I bin waitin’ on the railllroad,” I texted. She emerged. “Negative!” Right behind her, a woman with a grim look emerged, the words of a nurse behind her audible: “Call us if it gets worse.” Once the infected person had left, we held our breath and charged down the stairs. In the open air we breathed again and I went into the local pharmacy to stock up on FFP masks. 

 

At my teenager’s high school, orchestra rehearsals have just been cancelled “because of rising cases of COVID,” even though the windows are always wide open, the musicians sit six feet apart, and the wind instruments, who can’t wear masks, have an elaborate segregated area all their own. Meanwhile, gym class in a room with maskless sweaty boys dashing about and almost no ventilation takes place regularly. A teacher was spotted on a video giving a speech at an anti-maskers protest. Where going maskless was de rigueur. Another teacher said something along the lines of COVID being “not that bad.” Reportedly, a local doctor writes anyone who wants one a medical excuse claiming the person cannot wear a mask because of breathing problems. When the movers came to take my furniture to my new apartment, several weren’t wearing masks. I offered one an FFP and he thanked me. But didn’t wear it. The next time I saw him he had on a thin cloth mask. I retreated upstairs. 

 

Like Greta Garbo, I Vant To Be Alone. But I’m a relatively old person. I can write, do a few ballet exercises, use my cross trainer. From time to time I like to come out to see my family, even if only on Zoom. I rejoice to see my kids in person whenever doing so is possible. But I feel for those who can’t be alone, hope they survive, and yearn for them to keep their contagion to themselves.